


Safe

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Witcher, my only treasure [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23103517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: They think they're safe, that they've neutralised every threat.They're wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher, my only treasure [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650412
Comments: 3
Kudos: 90





	Safe

They think they're safe, that they've neutralised every threat.

Ciri, there, curled in on herself, gagged and blindfolded, rocking towards Jaskier one moment and then Geralt the next when another blow lands and they're not fast enough to smother the pained grunt.

Geralt, by the fire, far too close to it, wrists and ankles bound and locked behind him in a series of knots that strain him from shoulder to thigh. Steel in the set of his jaw, mangled only to heal and be mangled again, pain in the eyes flashing to Jaskier, to Ciri. To their captors and the weapons, their positioning round the camp. How many? Too many, if he works free of his bonds there'll be three at least to plunge a dagger in Jaskier's neck, Ciri's heart. Back to Jaskier again, helpless and _furious_.

But oh, that fury has nothing on what slinks through Jaskier's veins. Not fire this time, no, but a chill from times gone by, ancient and creeping and _cruel_.

They think they're safe, they're wrong.

They think they've neutralised every threat, but they don't know _him_.

They're so focused on the _witcher_ , they miss the dragon coming awake in their midst, the fangs drawing blood from his own mouth as they grow in, the fork in his tongue as it samples the air and their scents. They don't hear the near-silent stretch and split of flesh and muscle in his back as wings push out. They don't see the shadows wriggle and writhe around him, stealing his humanity and burying it in the embers of his eyes.

They _dare_ harm _his_.

Revenge, it is said, is a dish best served cold. And there are no flames in his maw when he clamps down on the nearest foe, crunching through armour as his human teeth do nuts, snapping his head from side to side until the body falls in three pieces. They notice him _then_ , they scramble and scream, and he rises above their panic with the rumble of thunder in his chest, snarling as he lashes out with claw and fang and tail.

 _Revenge_ is a dish best served in _carnage._


End file.
